


That Little Piece of Me in You

by SangreFria



Series: The Soulmates Series [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-03
Updated: 2011-04-03
Packaged: 2017-10-17 13:10:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/177173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SangreFria/pseuds/SangreFria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Their lives and destinies were so intertwined, in so many different ways, it figured that Dean carries around a little bit of Sam wherever he goes. A little bit of what Sam has lost.</p>
            </blockquote>





	That Little Piece of Me in You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [queenklu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenklu/gifts).



> Written after the airing of Season 6, Episode 8 "All Dogs Go to Heaven"; it's a coda about soulless!Sam that turns into blatant, indulgent fix-it fic.

Missing something as precious as your soul should probably leave behind an ache, but if it does, Sam can't feel it. The look that Dean gives him sometimes, that blatant mistrust- his memories of the last few years tell him that it should _hurt_. His chest should feel heavy and tight, his heart should pound, he should be overwhelmed with the need to reach out to Dean.

Sam doesn't feel any of those things, and even _that_ doesn't bother him.

Missing your soul isn't like having a toothache. It's not a constant pain that reminds you that something's not right. Sam has a memory of when he was eight and lost his first tooth. When it was loose, he couldn't leave it alone. His tongue would wander back to it again and again, poking and wiggling it until it became a motion he didn't even think about.

Then one day, it fell out. His tongue would keep pushing at that place out of habit, expecting to find a tooth, and it was just gone. Nothing there. No pain, of course; but then again, no tooth. Over time, his tongue stopped bothering to look, and he stopped even noticing that it was gone. Missing a soul was kind of like that.

Sam says and does things that scare Dean. Sam still remembers everything there is to know about Dean; he can categorize every face he makes, every expression, every feeling. He knows that just looking at Sam sometimes is torture for Dean, and he knows the particular look in his eye that says Sam is breaking his heart, one piece at a time. Sam's real familiar with that one.

During those moments, Sam doesn't feel the pain he knows he should. But at the same time, everything inside him goes still. His mind just stops, goes completely blank, until suddenly the world around him springs back into motion and sound and life goes on. At first he thought he was imagining it, but ever since coming clean with Dean, he's been looking at Sam like that more often, and Sam can't deny that it... _affects_ him, somehow.

But there are still no feelings. Even in those few seconds of absolute stillness, there's no feeling of calm. No tranquility. Sam can't sleep, can't rest, can't relax. If anything, it makes him more restless. He throws himself into cases, works through the night, exercises to the point of physical exhaustion, and avoids dwelling on those... _moments of vacuum_ , he could call them.

It helps that Dean has been making an effort to work with Sam, despite everything. Even through pure logic, Sam can see that he's better with a soul. Not a better hunter, obviously, but just _better_. And if Crowley has the key to it all, then at least they have something to work towards. Dean has been focusing even harder on hunting now, with a clear goal in sight. He wants to make this happen so badly, Sam can practically see the hunger for it on his face. He wants Sammy back.

Sam doesn't know whether it's this motivation, or just the thought of sleeping in a room while Sam's awake, that's pushing Dean tonight. He returned to the motel with a box of pizza, a six-pack of beer, and three tomes of lore- each thick enough to rival Tolstoy's _War and Peace_ \- which he tossed down on the table with a grimace. "Looks like we're burning the midnight oil, brainiac."

Two hours later, Dean was scowling down at the cramped, spidery notes that crowded the margins. He rolled over on his bed with a groan, stomach stuffed full of small town America's greasiest pizza. "Man, I can't get through one page of this crap without a random reference to the one you have. Nothing I'm reading makes sense, here."

Sam tried to roll the stiffness out of his shoulders, still hunched over at the table. He had already come across the problem, which was why he was trying to sift through both of the other two books at the same time, taking note of what he would have to search for in the one Dean had. "Same here. It won't be any better unless you have all three, Dean."

Books from private collections could be such a pain in the ass. On the one hand, the notes scrawled all over the place by the previous owners could be incredibly helpful. Sam had to give- he glanced at the cover page- Professor Bertram Wilcox his due for being obsessively thorough. On the other hand, points off for his totally batshit organizational system.

Dean rubbed a hand over his face, looking tired already. "Well then, get your ass over here. I don't know about you, T-800, but I don't have all night." They used to spread research over Sam's bed all the time, but ever since Sam came back wrong, Dean hasn't been inviting him in this close. Dean pulled in his legs, making room in the middle of the bed, and gave Sam a wary, expectant look.

Typical Dean. Sam knew that he was expected to just play it cool, no questions asked, so he doesn't hesitate to gather everything from the table.

Sam tried not to notice, but he could feel Dean's muscles losing their tension next to him. Eventually it felt natural to just share one book between them, its huge bulk propped up by their knees as they bickered over whether the words under an inkblot could be "beatae lacrimae" or "beatum argentum".

Sam found his eyes wandering from the page to Dean's profile. Pressed this close together, warming each other from shoulder to hip, he could see how the golden light from the bedside lamp highlighted the curve of Dean's cheek, the tiny freckles arching over his nose. He could smell so many familiar scents- cheap motel soap, a faint hint of deodorant, the spicy musk of Dean's favorite cologne. He could see how the time between Dean's blinks was getting shorter, how his lashes fluttered as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

And Sam felt...

...He _felt_...

 

\---------

 

Sam felt an intense warmth spreading through his entire body. He instinctively curled closer to the source, and could feel it shift against him. His limbs felt loose, and a little heavy. Sluggish, and slow to react, but he felt safe.

Small details started to filter into his mind. There was soft cotton under his palms. Hot skin pressed against his neck. Heated little puffs of air against his collarbone. Some fingers twitched and flexed against the small of his back. He tilted his head and felt short, soft hair brush his lips. A chest was partially pressed to his, another heart beating with Sam's in perfect time.

Sam's eyes slid open, and he found himself squinting against the early morning light. Morning. It was morning.

 _He had slept through the night_.

The shock of it hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. For the first time in more than a year, he had slept through the night, and he felt _amazing_. He had forgotten what this felt like. He took a slow, deep breath and felt utter contentment tingle all the way to his fingertips. He never wanted to leave this bed again.

The source of it all began to shift away with a low, sleepy grunt, and Sam had to fight a desperate urge to grab hold and haul him back in, then never, ever let go. A familiar feeling- _Dean, Dean, don't leave me!_ \- rushed through his chest, right where Castiel said that his soul should have been, but wasn't.

Dean. Oh fuck, _Dean_.

It was all so simple. Dean was Sam's other half, apparently quite literally. Their lives and destinies were so intertwined, in so many different ways, it figured that Dean carries around a little bit of Sam wherever he goes. A little bit of what Sam has lost.

Ash's voice echoes through his mind. _Oh, you know...Like, soul mates_.

Now that he's focusing, he can actually feel it. Right there, in Dean's chest. That little glow of feeling that Sam needs like water in the desert. Dean shifts again, close to waking, and murmurs something against Sam's neck. Sam can feel Dean's lips brush his skin, leaving little trails of fire.

Sam slowly pulls away, careful not to jostle him, and it feels like being drenched with icy water. Sam stands for a moment by the bed; he feels like he's crawling out of his own skin, and then feels nothing at all.

Dean rolls onto his back and squints up at him. "Dude, Hitchcock much?" His voice is still rough with sleep as he rubs his eyes. "Could you not stand over my bed like a mouth-breathing creeper?"

Sam takes two steps back, sitting carefully on the other bed. He voice comes out smoother, his tone more even, than he expects. "Sure, Dean. Sorry."


End file.
